A Study in Chemistry
by KallistoTheKrow
Summary: A johnlock version (or should I say even more johnlock version) of the unaired Pilot episode. Prompted by a conversation on Tumblr about what happened after John and Sherlock leave after the cabby's death.
1. Civilian life

(John POV)

"How's your blog going?"  
John Hamish Watson, formally Captain John Watson, formally of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers kept his expression of bland affability in place. He had not expected his military trained expression of "whatever the fuck you say, sir" the come in useful in his civilian life. He even managed a slight smile as he replied, "Hmm, fine. No, good, very good."  
Ella nods, her eyebrows rising fractionally. "Written much?" she inquires, her tone mild.  
"Not a word." He keeps his tone dry but he allows his light expression to drop. There's no point really. He isn't sure why he bothered with the facade in the first place. Nor, for that matter does he know why his therapist has even asked. She must know that over the past few months, he's done little more then pull the damn thing up in his computer occasionally to stare at it. He certainly isn't going to mention his habit of absently eying his Browning a bit longer then is strictly necessary as he pulls the laptop from the drawer of his rickety table at his small, gloomy bedsit.  
"John", she prods. He keeps his attention on her only out of politeness, "it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life."  
John closes eyes and nods. He wonders what it's like to have a career where your job is to explain the obvious facts of someones own life to them. It is perhaps a rather cruel thought, but it's the one that has been circling his brain ever since he started coming to Ella. She's never been able to tell him anything other then what he already knows. And what's more, the pity he see's in her eyes every time he limps through her door brings a sick feeling to his stomach.  
"Sure," he nods again.  
"And it will help so much to write bout everything that's happening to you." Her tone is so earnest it's almost painful. Her brown eyes wide and steady.  
For the first time this visit, John looks at his therapist with and replies with total honesty, "Nothing happens to me."

Later, as John exits the tube on the way to his bedsit, his mind wonders back to a more pressing issue then his lack of blog posts. Even if his supposed PTSD and limp were to miraculously disappear. He'd be still left with the problem of a crap flat and no job. He's too overqualified, and at the same time too damaged. No one in there right minds wants to hire an unstable ex-army surgeon with an intermittent tremor in his working hand.  
"John?"  
The name is so common that he doesn't even glance around at the sound of it at first, but then...  
"John Watson!"  
This time it catches his attention and he turns around in surprise. He is met by a wide, grinning face whose gaze he returns without recognition. The man is heavily overweight and is dressed in a long tan coat over a suit. He has short, curly brown hair and wears glasses.  
Eagerly the man steps forward gesturing toward himself while saying, "Stamford, Mike Stamford! We were at Bart's together."  
It finally clicks and John remembers a much smaller, younger man. Mike Stamford, short, enthusiastic, but thankfully not the loudest or most obnoxious of his old medical school friends. He also seems to remember the keen interest the boy had taken in everyone else's love lives, or in some cases, lack thereof.  
"Yes!" The word comes out in a huff of surprise and he apologizes, "Sorry, yes. Mike, hello." He smiles genuinely and holds out his hand in greeting.  
"Yeah, I know," Stamford grins and reaches up to indicate his chin. "I got fat."  
"No," John protests halfheartedly shaking his head and smiling a bit.  
Stanford continues blithely. "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at!"  
"Hmm," John has to hold back a smirk at this. It's probably the most casual way someone has brought that little tidbit up in a long while, although it freezes briefly at Mike's next words.  
"What happened?"  
_What do you think happened?_ he thinks as he tries to keep the incredulity off his face. His voice is very steady when he replies, "I got shot." _That's what happens. You get shot, or blown up, and then you're sent home to wonder, what the hell happens next?_

Lunch was at Mike's insistence and John didn't need much persuading. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had had a decent conversation with someone other then his therapist and he wasn't sure if that even counted. She was essentially being paid to talk to him after all. In any case, it was either that or go back to the bedsit.  
They ended up at a place called Citerion that John vaguely recalled bringing a girlfriend to once.  
"So you still at Bart's then?" he asks.  
"Teaching now," Mike replies, reaching for a piece of bread as the waitress stops at their table. "Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them." he adds with mock rancor.  
John snorts slightly, smiling. He can picture it. Teaching suits Mike, he has the patience and the cheerful enthusiasm for it.  
"What about you?" Mike asks, indicating John. "Staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"  
He smiles wryly, "Can't afford London on an army pension."  
"Oh I don't know , get yourself a flatshare or something?" Mike suggests, reaching for his wine.  
_If only it were that easy,_ John thinks. Leaning back in his chair he says, "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"  
It's meant more as a statement then a question but Mike get's an odd, far off look on his face and chuckles.  
"What?" John asks.  
"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." He's really smiling now. Amusement written all over his face.  
John could have passed over that statement without comment. Could have written it off as an odd coincidence but, in the end, not a viable option. Years later he would sometimes winder why he didn't. Perhaps it was simple curiosity, perhaps it was the knowing look on Mike Stamford's face that made him ask, "Who was the first?"


	2. The Name is Sherlock Holmes

Switching to Sherlock this time with the meeting at St. Bart's. ! I hope this chapter was a bit better then the last one. I find Sherlock much easier to write then John as I can rely on instinct a bit more with him.  
I own nothing unfortunately.

(Sherlock POV)  
At this very moment, in the depths of a morgue of a hospital by the name of St. Bartholomew's, a bodybag is unzipped and voice of velvet and steel makes the inquiry: "How fresh?"  
In the dim blue light, Sherlock Holmes' gaze flicks over the body of a man in his late sixties. Single, desk worker, no visible marks on the body as he had requested.  
"Just in," comes the bright, cheerful reply. Molly Hooper hovers behind him in the doorway, fiddling with the white gloves that cover her hands. "Sixty-seven, natural causes."  
_Perfect_, Sherlock thinks. He reflects that recruiting Molly into his small network of people had been one of his better moves since he had started working with the police. Although, "recruit" was perhaps the wrong word. The young woman had managed the attach herself to him almost the moment he had walked in the door. She was a definite asset at the hospital as she was bright, and far less twittery then many others on the hospital staff.  
"Used to work here, donated his body. I knew him. He was nice."  
_Yes, definitely an asset. Not many people would have been so cavalier over providing the corpse of a coworker._  
"Fine," he says aloud. "We'll start with the riding crop."

Five minutes later he's sweating, despite the sub-arctic conditions in the room. Really, it would be much more convenient when he had everything set up properly at Baker Street. He hadn't been able to sneak much more then the eyeballs out of his last flat. The landlord had been quite unreasonable in that regard.  
"So, bad day, was it?"  
Sherlock exhales in a huff of breath. _Not at all, one case solved and with luck Lestrade will show some sense and admit incompetence any day now. Really, the only crinkle was his new found need of a flatmate._  
Setting the crop to the side he ignores her superfluous inquiry and noted, "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depend on it. Text me," he adds reaching behind him for his coat. Molly could usually be relied upon to be prompt but the added incentive couldn't hurt.  
He goes to pass her but she suddenly blurts out, "Listen, I was wondering, maybe later-"  
Glancing down at her, only half listening, his gaze is drawn to her mouth. Odd. "Are you wearing lipstick?" he asks. "You weren't wearing lipstick before."  
"I-," she stutters her expression freezing for a brief second before managing another bright, awkward smile. "I just refreshed it a bit."  
Sherlock nods, not believing her in the slightest. "Sorry, you were saying?" he prompts. He wonders vaguely who the makeup was intended for. Unimportant, unless of course said relationship somehow infringed upon the work. Unlikely, moving on. He tunes back in as Molly asks him if he'd like to have coffee.  
He tilts his head a bit at the apparent change in subject. "Black, two sugars please, I'll be upstairs." Offering her a bright smile, he continues on his way.

Sherlock inspects his reply to Mycroft's email with a smirk thinking, _ Hardly an impossible situation brother mine, merely one which requires the legwork you so abhor._ Defiantly clicking send, he wonders why Mycroft bothers with email anymore. Sentiment perhaps. A leftover from University days.  
He moves on to a slightly more relevant reply to Inspector Gregson regarding the church bell theft. Not a bad sort, Gregson, though even less perceptive Lestrade at times and rarely had any cases worth Sherlock's time. Speaking of Lestrade...  
Sherlock's eyes narrow as he sees a message sent early this morning. It read simply,  
_Please call me._  
_Lestrade_  
He allows himself a smile._ Nice try. But not quite good enough._ He deletes the email. Lestrade will come to him when he's really desperate and by then, much more willing to listen.  
As he pulls up another email he hears the door open. Two pairs of footsteps. The first much heavier, the second unsteady, walking with a cane.  
He glanced over his shoulder. _Well, well, he had to give the man credit. He worked fast._

Stamford was fallowed by a solid looking man a few years older then Sherlock. Military, obviously, judging by his upright, square stance as well as the short cut of his graying blond hair. The man walked with a cane, leaning heavily into it, however when he paused to look around the room his weight shifted, evening out as he stood more upright-_ ah, interesting._  
"It's a bit different from my day." The soldier's voice is warm, holding in it a mix of wry amusement and fondness. Sherlock's attention narrows even more. _Army doctor? Mike Stamford, you really have exceeded yourself._  
At that moment, Stamford spoke, drawing Sherlock back to the present and he turned away. "You've no idea."  
"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" he called. "No signal on mine." His word's are impulsive. In all honesty, it could have waited but this might well turn out to to be the most interesting thing to happen all day.  
Stamford sighed impatiently, "Well, what's wrong with the land line?"  
_Nothing whatsoever, but that's not the point._ "I'd rather text."  
He hears him shuffling through his pockets then, "Sorry, other coat."_ I know._  
"Oh, here. Use mine."  
He allows himself to turn, feigning surprise. "Oh, thank you."  
Sherlock stands as the man steps closer. Handing over the phone _(new iPhone, six months old, black, engraving on the back, slight scuff marks all over the device)_ and giving Sherlock a better look at him. A pair of blue eyes, darker then his own, meet his for the briefest moment.  
"This is an old mate of mine," Stamford says giving the man a pat on the arm. "John Watson."  
Sherlock sits back down, keeping his eyes fixed on the phone.  
_Well Doctor Watson, lets see who you are._  
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
A pause, then "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?" his voice trails off as Molly walks in carrying a white mug.  
"Ah coffee! Thank you, Molly." Sherlock smiles, leaning back in his chair to hand Watson his phone back. "What happened to the lipstick?" he inquires.  
The smile slides off her face a bit_ (disappointed?)._ "It wasn't working for me."  
"Really?" he asks, honestly surprised. "I thought it was a big improvement. Mouths too small now." he notes taking a sip of the coffee.  
"Okay." Her last word wasn't a squeak exactly, but it had the same affect.  
Pity that, she'd probably be gloomy and absentminded for the next day or so. Back to the matter at hand.  
"How do you feel about the violin?"_ Best start him with something easy at first._  
"-Sorry, what?" Watson asks distractedly, tearing his eyes away from the retreating Molly to stare at Sherlock.  
"I play the violin when I'm thinking." he lists off, "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" he adds as an afterthought. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."  
"Oh," Watson says, understanding entering his voice. "You told him about me."  
This is apparently directed at Stamford because the man answers mildly with, "Not a word."  
Sherlock bites back a smirk as he rises to his feet and reaches for his coat.  
"Then who said anything about flatmates?"  
"I did-" _Obviously._ He sweeps the coat around his shoulders continuing, "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is after lunch with an old friend clearly home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn't a difficult leap." he finishes reaching for his gloves.  
Watson is looking at the floor with an odd little smile on his face before he looks back up and asks again, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"  
Again Sherlock chooses to ignore the question._ Probably best to ease him into the deductions as well. With any luck Stamford will explain at least some of it to him._ "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we could afford it." leaning forward he shuts off the machine he's been using. Perhaps he should have been more careful with his laptop after all. Oh well.  
"We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry," he apologizes, "got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."  
An exasperated laugh escapes Watson as he calls, "Is that it?"  
"Is that what?" Sherlock asks, confused. He'd thought he'd been perfectly clear.  
"We've just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"  
_Yes, that is rather the point, isn't it?_ Sherlock raises his eyebrows, "Problem?"  
Watson sees his eyebrow, and raises him an incredulous look at both himself and Mike Stamford. "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know your name, I don't even know where we're meeting.  
Sherlock can feel his lips trying to curve into a smile. There's a strength and authority to Watson's voice now that was missing before. A hard steel beneath the warm exterior. _There you are, John Watson. Was this what Stamford saw in you? Was this why he brought you?_ He feels a hint of adrenalin stir in him for some reason. Why? He isn't running, he isn't on a case. _Alright, you want to know about me, doctor?_  
"I know you're an army doctor and you've recently been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother with a bit of money who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife."  
He pauses, wondering if he should go on. Watson is staring at with the strangest expression. There's hurt there and anger, oh quite a lot of anger, but it isn't directed at Sherlock. And was that... no. That wasn't a plea, there was too much pride and stubborn resilience in those navy eyes for pleading. But it was perhaps a question.  
Gently, even more gently then he intended, Sherlock adds the final piece. "And I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid."  
"That's enough to be getting on with, don't you think?" he smiles slightly and turns to the door. Oh, wait. There was something else, yes.  
Leaning back into the room, his gaze fixed on Watson _(John?)_ he says, "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address id 221B Baker Street."  
With a click of his tongue and a wink he nods and his afternoon at Stamford and sweeps out the door.


	3. 221B

Hi, guys! Sorry this one took so long. The last two weeks turned out to be much busier then I planned. I normally post music with my stories but the last two chapters haven't proved very conductive to it for some reason. This week however I seemed to have found one for John's POV. For anyone interested the song is Stray Italian Grayhound by Vienna Teng. I own nothing, blah, blah.  
Enjoy!  
-Krow  
-

(John's POV)

That evening, as John fits the key into the lock of his tiny room, he wonders if the entire world had gone mad today, or just him.  
First there was this Sherlock Holmes character. And that's just what he seemed to be, a character. If John hadn't met him himself, he would never have believed such a person existed. It was like seeing a crystal come to life. All sharp, glittering edges that cast as many shadows as illuminated. His mood had swung back and forth between coldly controlled and positively manic. And how had he known about John? He had practically cornered poor Stamford after Holmes had left and the man still swore that he hadn't said a word to him about John. How had he done it then?  
It hadn't been a trick, John was almost sure of that. Holmes' had made his inferences with pinpoint accuracy. The only piece of wrong information he had given John was his sisters' gender, but in some ways that made Holmes' case even stronger. A mistake like that was unlikely if he had simply looked John up or had been told about him.  
Speaking of that.. He pulled his computer out of the desk drawer and started it up. As he waited for the machine to boot up he wondered how on earth Stamford had thought they'd make good flatmates. John was not an idiot and he wasn't intimidated by Holmes' exactly but the younger mans' laser intelligence and rapid-fire reasoning were not exactly likely to make him an easy man to live with. The way Holmes' eyes had studied him had been unnerving. Not unpleasant exactly but strange. No on had looked at him with that degree of intensity for a very long time. Something about that intensity drew him in, left him unable to tear his gaze away from those strange blue eyes, framed with porcelain pale skin and..._ wait, what?_  
John froze halfway through typing in his password as he registered what he had just thought. He stared rather blankly at the wall for a moment, swore, and then hurriedly finished logging in, praying the whole while that Mike had not once again decided to turn cupid in his spare time.  
No, surely not. John was just overreacting. He hadn't had a decent shag since he had been shot and it wasn't surprising that his thoughts would turn in that direction after attention from even a mildly attractive bloke. Not that Holmes' was only mildly attractive. If John was going to be totally honest the man was bloody gorgeous. Strangely so, for someone with such an odd collection of features. All long bones and sharp edges, save for his soft-looking black curls, and that mouth- _Nope!_  
_Full stop, Watson. Mind out of the gutter!_  
As he entered Sherlock Holmes into his search engine and pressed search, he again entertained the possibility that he had completely lost his mind.

The state of his mental status notwithstanding, John found himself at the address indicated at 7o'clock the following evening. Leaning on his cane he examined the black door of 221. The flat was located next to a small cafe. The red awning over the front read,_ Mrs Hudson's Snax 'n' Sarnies_ in, of all things, yellow comic sans print.  
He didn't notice the cab pulling up behind him until a familiar baritone voice broke him from his musing.  
"Mrs. Hudson, our landlady."  
John turned to see the man he had spent so much time pondering over last night, and awkwardly he shifted to offer his hand. "Ah, Mr. Holmes."  
"Sherlock, please." Sherlock shook his hand firmly and smiled slightly before turning to the entrance of their new lodgings. "Getting a special rate, owes me a favor." he explained leading the way. "A few years ago her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."  
"You stopped her husband being executed?" John guessed as Sherlock gave a firm rap to the door knocker. _Well that seemed to line up a bit with the research had done last night._  
Sherlock turned back to him sharply as if in surprise, "Oh no, I ensured it."  
John had no time to do more then gape at him when the door was opened by an older woman who cried, "Oh Sherlock!" and embraced the tall man like a favorite grandson. Then she was ushering them happily inside, and John allowed himself to be swept along in Sherlock's wake.  
Seventeen steps led up to the flat and Sherlock sprang up them like a gazelle in a Belstaff coat while John limped hurriedly behind him. Pausing to look back at him at what John presumed was their door, Sherlock gave a tiny smile and paused inward into the room.  
It looked very warm. That was John's first though. Warm and lived in, a thousand miles from John's current place of residence. A fire blazed in the hearth in the far left of the the room with a pair of comfortable chairs in front of it. Books, boxes, scattered papers, and other oddments cluttered the room but John could not keep the the smile from his face. And he noted how Sherlock turned to him with a pleased expression.  
"Well, this could be very nice." he limped further into the room, glancing around as Sherlock removed his gloves. "Very nice, indeed."  
John poked his head into an equally clutter kitchen, the counter tops filled what looked like chemistry equipment.  
"Yes, I think so," Sherlock agreed behind him. "My thought exactly."  
Their next words blurred together.  
"-So I went ahead and moved in."  
"-As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out."  
They starred at each other in the extremely awkward silence that fallowed. John felt his face warm and an odd kick to the gut when he saw embarrassment and hurt take over Sherlock's features. Obvious in his parted lips and wide eyes.  
_Damn it,_ he thought.  
"So, all this is your stuff," he gestured uncomfortably behind them into the living room.  
"Obviously, I can straiten things up a bit," Sherlock moved away, hastily grabbing a handful of papers at random and tossed some onto a table and carrying the others over to the mantlepiece.  
Looking around, trying to find some other topic of conversation, John found he was being stared at. Insomuch as one could be starred at out of empty eye sockets. "That's a real skull," he noted flatly, hardly noticing as Sherlock proceeded to skewer the mail he had been carrying to the mantlepiece with a jack knife.  
The dark haired man glanced up. "Friend of mine. Well, I say friend." his smile was just a little too bright.  
_Okay, a bit worrying that._  
"What do you think, Doctor Watson?"  
"Hmm?" John tore his eyes away from the skull to look into the cheerful, eager face of Mrs. Hudson.  
"There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." She gave him a bright and very obvious wink.  
He own face felt as wooden as a plank as he croaked, "Of course we'll be needing two." He had, he had felt, been doing quite a good job of pushing back his speculations of yesterday evening. Now he was hoping against hope that Sherlock did not look in his direction for however long the woman continued this lovely course of conversation.  
"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner, next door, has got married ones." she added happily.  
John briefly considered trying to smother himself in one of the sofa cushions.  
Luckily at this point Mrs. Hudson turned her attention to the other man in the room. "Sherlock," she sighed. "The mess you've made." Her tone was resigned rather then reproachful as she proceeded to gather up several cups and, humming to herself, carry them into the kitchen.  
This drew another genuine smile from John. The older woman rather reminded him of his gran before she died. Glancing warily over at Sherlock, he saw that the young man's posture had softened a little since their landlady had entered the room.  
Hoping to dispel any of the residual tension from his earlier gaff he broached one of the subjects that he had been turning over since yesterday.  
"Oh, I um, looked you up on the Internet last night." he said, sitting down in one of the armchairs.  
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him briefly before retuning to whatever he was doing. "Anything interesting?"  
_You know exactly what I found._  
"Found your website," he said dryly, tapping at a spot in the floor with his cane. "The Science of Deduction."  
"-What did you think?"  
John wondered how far he could push it. "Quite amusing, I suppose."  
Sherlock was looking at him now. "Amusing."  
"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and, what was it, a retired plumber by his left hand." It was ridiculous. One of the most ridiculous things he'd ever read, and yet-  
"Yes, and I can read your military career by your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits by your mobile phone." Sherlock's gaze on him was sharp, piercing.  
John didn't back down, he didn't even glance around as Mrs. Hudson bustled back in saying something about the state of the place. "How?" he asked flatly.  
"You read the article."  
"The article was absurd." John wondered if he was actually trying to rile the man up.  
"But I know about his drinking habits," Sherlock pushed turning around now and resting his hands on the back of the other chair. "I even know that he left his wife."  
_Point._  
"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" came Mrs. Hudson's voice from behind his chair. "Thought that be right up your street. Been a fourth one now."  
No sooner had she spoken when John heard siren of a police vehicle and saw a flash of red and blue light from the street. Sherlock's head snapped around as he replied, "Yes, actually, it's very much up my street." In a few quick strides he was at the window.  
John couldn't contain himself, his eyes on the long, clean line of the man's back he asked, "Can I just ask, what is your street?"  
Sherlock didn't answer. His next words seemed to be directed at Mrs. Hudson. "There's been a fifth." He might have said more but then there was a clatter from down stairs and all three of them looked 'round as a trench coated man with short salt and pepper hair came through the door.  
Sherlock didn't wait for him to speak, he just said, "Where?" As if the man's arrival was only to be expected.  
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?" The man's voice was slightly gravely.  
Sherlock seemed to take in this information before asking, "Who's on forensics?"  
"Anderson." The man's tone suggested that he knew there was going to be a problem. And indeed Sherlock's next words seemed to confirm it.  
"Anderson won't work with me."  
"He won't be your assistant." Despite his own word, he didn't sound hopeful.  
"But I need an assistant," for a moment Sherlock looked about twelve years old, complaining to an older brother that he didn't want to play with the other kids.  
The older man sighed. "Will you come?"  
Biting his lip, Sherlock conceded, "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."  
The other nodded, "Thank you." He gave what was almost a brief, polite bow to Mrs. Hudson and John, before turning and leaving the flat.  
John, who rather felt like he had been watching some sort of tennis match, looked at Sherlock who was pressing his lips together and tapping the floor with one foot like an excited dog. Then without further ado, he did a short little dance exclaiming, "Oh, brilliant!"  
Mrs. Hudson giggled as Sherlock grabbed for his coat saying, "I thought it was going to be a dull evening."  
"Honestly-" he continued glancing at John, "you can't beat a really imaginative serial killer when there's nothing on the telly."  
John starred at him. It was exactly like before, controlled calm giving way to a bright burst of wild energy. John could feel it like a jolt of lightning in the room and everything seemed to jump into sharp contrast.  
"Mrs. Hudson I may be out late, might need some food." Sherlock called to her, wrapping his scarf around his long pale neck.  
"I'm your landlady, dear. Not your housekeeper." _Oh yes, exactly like his gran._  
"Something cold will do," continued Sherlock, seeming to mirror John's thoughts.  
"John," he jolted in his seat. "make yourself at home. Er, have a cup of tea," Sherlock added, barley glancing at him as he practically bolted from the room. "Don't wait up!"  
John felt sick, disappointment and frustration roiled in his stomach and his grip on his cane tightened. What had he expected? For Sherlock to ask him to tag along? Whatever the hell that had just been, is was apparently none of John's business.  
"Look at him dashing about." Mrs. Hudson laughed, then added. "My husband was just the same."  
John didn't bother to correct her implied assumption this time, he just slumps back in his chair.  
Unfortunately she continued, "But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell."  
John scowled.  
"I'll get you that cuppa, you rest your leg."  
Something snapped. "Damn my leg!" John immediately regretted his outburst as the old woman jumped. _ Damn it. Yes John, what a wonderful first impression you're making with everyone. And you thought Sherlock was going to be the nutter._  
"Sorry," he apologized. "I'm so sorry. But sometime this-" he angrily rapped his leg "-bloody thing."  
"I understand, dear" she nodded. "I've got a hip."  
"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you." he added.  
"Just this once, dear," Mrs. Hudson shook a finger at his as she walked away. "I'm not your housekeeper."  
"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em," he called, reaching for a newspaper that was part of the detritus of the floor.  
"Not your housekeeper."  
John wasn't listening. On the front page he saw a picture of the man who had come through the door earlier, along with the headline, _Fourth Suicide Found._ Beneath the picture was the caption, _Inspector Lestrade, detective in charge of the investigation._  
"You're a doctor."  
John started, looking around. It was the last voice he would have expected to hear at that moment.  
"In fact, you're an army doctor." Sherlock's low baritone was not a question, still, John answered as he rose to his feet trying to squash the strange, hopeful feeling rising in him.  
"Yes."  
"Any good?" Sherlock asked, stepping forward.  
John froze, his eyebrows raising. _"Very_ good."  
"Seen a lot of injures then." There was an odd glint in his eyes and continued until he was directly in front of John. "Violent deaths."  
"Well, yes." John furrowed his brows. _Where is this going?_  
Sherlock's eyes were very steady as he nodded slightly. John could feel the tension in the room tighten like a bow string. _Where is this going?_ "Bit of trouble too I bet."  
"-Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far to much." Those were the accepted answers, the ones he told Ella, Harry, Samford, everyone else.  
A very slight smile curved Sherlock's lips. He's looking at John. Looking into John. _Where is this going?_  
_Right here_  
"Want to see some more?"  
_"God_, yes!" John voice is a horse gasp, like a breath pulled in after being too long under water.  
"Come on, then." He doesn't wait for John. He doesn't need to.  
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he called as an afterthought. "I'll skip the cuppa. Off out."  
"What, both of you?" She asks surprised, hurrying down the hall.  
Sherlock stops at the front door, grinning. "No point staying at home when there's finally some halfway interesting murders."  
"Look at you all happy," she scolds halfheartedly. "It's not decent."  
"Who cares about decent? The Game, Mrs. Hudson is on!"


	4. The Science of Deduction

Another chapter from our dear blogger. I know, I know, you expected a Sherlock chapter but originally this and the previous one were supposed to be one chapter, but then John took over the keyboard and wouldn't shut up about Sherlock. Don't worry, I'm sure the detective will be more then happy take over next week. There should be a little overlap between POVs so you'll get to hear Sherlock's reaction to John's little deduction of him. I own nothing.  
Playlist for this week includes:

_Addicted To You_ by Avicii

_Winter Winds_ by Mumford & Sons

(John's POV)

The thing about adrenalin driven impulses, John Watson thinks, was that it did not allay the awkwardness in between points A and B. The feeling of, _"Oh god yes, I actually feel alive again,"_ was fading and the feeling of, "_Oh god, I'm in a car with a complete madman who apparently finds serial killers the last word in entertainment and who, incidentally, I wouldn't mind shagging into the carpet when we get back to the flat,"_ was taking it's place.  
This last bit was a lot easier to acknowledge when he was not being subjected to the knowing winks of an elderly woman he hardly knew. It wasn't so much that he was suffering a crisis in regards to his heterosexuality, he had had two rather informative experiences in Uni that had convinced him that he might not be quite as straight at he had previously thought. The first had been fairly innocent in nature, the other had been... less so.  
John found his eyes being drawn back to said madman. Sherlock was leaning against the opposite door, head tilted back as he gazed out at passing cars and god knows what going on inside his head. The passing street lamps cast his face in odd contrasts of light and shadows, outlining his sharp features beautifully. John looked away pursed his lips, glanced back and then hurriedly away again as Sherlock caught his gaze. He felt himself flush._ Ridiculous, you're not sixteen, Watson. Pull yourself together._ He starred resolutely ahead.  
Apparently this was not good enough for Sherlock Holmes.  
"Okay, you've got questions."  
John was relieved not to have been the one to break the uncomfortable silence. He gratefully began with the obvious question. "Where are we going?"  
"Crime scene," Sherlock shot him an incredulous look. Okay, maybe that had been a little too obvious. "There's been a murder. Next?"  
Fine, skipping the pleasantries then.  
"Who are you?" John burst out. "What do you do?"  
Beside him, the dark haired git looked almost smug. "What do you think?"  
John huffed. "I'd say private detective, but..." he trailed off.  
_"But?"_ Sherlock encouraged.  
"The police don't go to private detectives." he finished.  
"I'm a consulting detective. I'm the only one in the world. I _invented_ the job." The last bit was stated almost gloatingly.  
John starred at him. Either he was being extremely slow tonight or this man really was out of his mind. "What does that _mean?_"  
"It means," Sherlock said, "when the police is out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."  
"But the police don't consult..." John hesitated. He couldn't think of a word that wasn't in some way insulting or at least demeaning. "-amateurs." He looked up at Sherlock uncertainly.  
Sherlock met his gaze calmly, not offended but perhaps assessing. Blinking slowly, he appeared to gather his thoughts. "When I met you for the first time yesterday and asked "Afghanistan or Iraq" you looked surprised."  
John nodded, "How did you know?"  
"I didn't know, I saw." Sherlock multifaceted eyes flicked rapidly over him and once again John felt the atmosphere shift.  
"Tan face, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. Your conversation when you entered the room says trained at Bart's. So, army doctor, obvious."  
John felt lips part as his jaw fell a little slack. _What... What was this? Who even noticed these things?_  
But Sherlock wasn't done. Not by a long shot.  
"Your limps really bad when you walk," the detective noted, "but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it. That means the limp is at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatizing. Wounded in action then. So, where does an army doctor get himself a suntan and wounded in action these days? Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock concluded.  
John was not looking at Sherlock, could not look at him. He wasn't yet ready to let him see the thought he knew were written clearly on his face. "You said I had a therapist." he noted flatly.  
Sherlock almost scoffed. "You've got a psychosomatic limp,_ of course_ you've got a therapist."  
John felt his lips curve fractionally.  
"Then there's your brother-"  
He looked around at this. It had been the only piece of information the man had gotten wrong so far. He's got a fairly good guess what the stumbling point was but he doesn't protest as the man plucks up John's mobile.  
"Your phone," Sherlock stated. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, mp3 player, your looking for a flat share, you wouldn't waist money on this. It's a gift then."  
Sherlock flipped the phone over, showing the back. "Scratches, not just one, but many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins." He gestures at John now, that mercurial gaze raking over him. "The man beside me wouldn't treat a luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner then."  
John can't tear his eyes away now. He's been completely spot on so far. Including his more personal assumptions of John himself. He can't put a name to the emotion coursing through him at that moment. It isn't quite like anything he's ever experienced.  
"The next bit's easy. You know it already."  
John is transfixed by the phone but he can feel Sherlock looking at him. "The engraving." he confirms.  
"'Harry Watson', clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin," he concedes, "-but then you're a war hero returning home who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close too." His expression is frank as he looks at him now and without any of the pity John has grown so used to. "So brother it is."  
"Now, _Clara_. Who's Clara?" Sherlock's voice deepens, his eyes narrowing and John has to fight down a shiver.  
"Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment, the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She's given this to him recently," Sherlock frowns, "the model is only six months old, so it's a marriage in trouble then. Six month old, he's just given it away?" He shakes his head and rolls his eyes gesturing with the mobile again. "If she' left him, he'd have kept the phone, probably. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her."  
John wonders vaguely if he should be angry about Sherlock's cool dismissal Harry and Clara's marriage. He isn't. Sherlock doesn't have any attachment whatsoever to them and John has certainly said worse things to his sister when they argued.  
"He gave the phone to you," Sherlock comments, "that says he wants you to stay in touch. He's worried about you. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you won't go to your brother for help." John grimaces slightly as Sherlock gives him the phone back. "That says you've got problems with him."  
John closes his eyes and shakes his head. Not in denial, it is true. That's just it, it's all true. Beside him, Sherlock pauses briefly, seeming to hesitate slightly over his next words.  
"Maybe you liked his wife."  
John looks at him sharply. It isn't accusation in his low voice, not a judgment. However he seems to acknowledge his step too far as he tilts his head and looks away. "Maybe you don't like his drinking."  
"Yeah, how could you _possibly_ know about the drinking?"  
"Shot in the dark," Sherlock admits. "Good one, though. Power connection, tiny scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he plugs it in to recharge. but his hands are shaking."  
John tilts the phone up squinting at the connection. Sure enough, there they are.  
"You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunks without them." Sherlock glances briefly out the window and reaches for his gloves. They must be getting close. "There you go, you see, you were right."  
He shoots the man an incredulous look, _"I_ was right? Right about _what?_"  
"The police don't consult amateurs."  
_You bastard. You mad, brilliant, glorious bastard._  
John finally manages get his voice to work again. "That was," he struggles to find the right word. "Amazing." He feels giddy, smiling like an fool into his hand. He half expects Sherlock to say something like _"Obvious"_ or _"Of course I am"_. Instead there is silence, then the faint rustle of the thick coat and...  
"Do you thinks so?" Sherlock sounded... surprised? No. more then that. He sounded stunned.  
"Of course it was," John half laughs incredulously. How can this strange, arrogant man possibly doubt that? How could anyone possibly doubt that? "It was extraordinary! It was quite extraordinary."  
"That's not what people usually say." The surprise is still there in Sherlock voice as he sits there blinking, but the softer flush of pleasure is beginning to overtake it in his features and the beginnings of a true and genuine smile are forming.  
"What do they usually say?" John is practically demanding information this time. What the hell else could a person actually say the this brilliant man?  
"Sherlock let's out a low huff, "Piss off."  
John starers for a moment longer, slowly processing that. Then he laughs, he can't help it and he doesn't feel bad about it because out of the corner of his eye he sees that Sherlock Holmes is still smiling.


	5. Extraordinary

Sorry guys, this one is coming in a bit late. I had to be out of town for an art show for a few days and then came back with a bad case of poison ivy. I was too miserable to edit yesterday so I hope this will made up the absence of chapters.  
Playlist for this week included Can't Pretend by Tom Odell.

Unfortunately I do not own BBC Sherlock.

(Sherlock's POV)

"That was, amazing."

For several seconds Sherlock feels as if his mind has stopped. It didn't grind to a halt, like the great cogs of a machine catching on grit. Not like Lestrade's voice when he interrupted a deduction with inane questions. Nothing like the annoying buzz of Anderson prattling on. It wasn't a derailment, his thoughts were still there, neatly lined up and eager to **continue**, but the rest of his mind was still, quiet.

_New information. Processing. Data not found._

Sherlock starred at the man sitting beside him. This open **book** of a man who let himself be read so easily. Surly there must be something else, some ulterior motive, something. Though John was half turned away he could see the bright sparkle in his eyes. His eyes laughed, not at Sherlock though, it was soft and joyous._ Words. He should say something shouldn't he? Confirm?_

"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was! It was extraordinary!" John's brilliant smile is turned on Sherlock now, there's so much warmth in it he swears he can feel the heat of it on his skin. _Impossible. An illogical thought that._

"It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say." Pleasure is blooming in the area of his chest now.

"What do they usually say?"

_"Freak. How the fuck did you do that? What's wrong with you? Have you been spying on me, you sick twat?"_

"Piss off." he says. There is silence in the cab and Sherlock thinks he has misjudged his words, that this is not an acceptable reply. And then John does the most extraordinary thing, he laughs. There is no mockery in the sound, it reaches out and coils in his stomach, making him feel warm. Sherlock is unable to stop the soft upward curve of his lips and in any case, he couldn't think of a single reason to try.

A definite sprinkling of rain had set in by the time they reached Lauriston Gardens. Handing the cabby his fare Sherlock exited the cab and winced slightly at the sudden rush of chill air. Wrapping his coat more tightly about himself he glanced at John as he exited the vehicle.

"Did I get anything wrong?" he asked. It was not an inquiry he would have posed to Lestrade but the army doctors earlier reaction to his deductions had put him more at ease then he normally was around people. He had asked it more often when he was much younger, to his parents or to his older brother, but he couldn't recall the last time he had asked it since Uni.

"Harry and me don't get on," John replies, grimacing into the light rain, "Never have. Harry and Clara are getting a divorce, split up three months ago. Harry's a drinker." He lists the facts off matter of factly.

_Good,_ Sherlock notes absently ._ Could prove useful in future._ "Spot on then. I didn't expect to get everything right." He's about to comment on how pleased he is with this when John's next word make him pull up short.

"Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock feel his head snap around so sharply he feels the joints in his neck creak in protest. "Harry's your sister?" he demands.

John is asking him something now, but he's barely listening, too busy berating himself. "Your sister!"_ Stupid! Stupid to make an assumption like that with incomplete data. He should have examined the phone more closely. Although, "Harry" was a distinctly masculine and therefore-_ "Oh, there's always something!" he hisses to himself.

Reaching the line of police tape, he only barely holds back a groan as they are met by the, though expected, nonetheless regrettable figure of Sargent Sally Donovan crossing her arms. _Damn, he had hoped she would have waited until he had at least met with Lestrade before swooping in._

"Hello, freak." _Ah, yes. Charming as ever._

He can feel John's eyes on his back, best keep this short, if possible. "I'm here to see Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"_ Or not._

"I was invited."

"Why?"_ Really? And Lestrade called him childish._ Sherlock wondered exactly what she was hoping to accomplish with her inane bickering. She must knew she couldn't chase him off by now.

"I think he wants me to take a look." he allowed a bit of sarcasm to enter his words.

Apparently she's already had enough. Pressing her lips together and roughly grabbing the police tape and holding it up she scowls, "Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally." he replies, ducking under. His eyes are cast downward, so he notices the slight bruising abrasions on her knees. He also notes a faint whiff of a cheap brand of men's deodorant. _Fine, if she wants to exchange barbs this evening._

"Even though you didn't make it home last night."

Her face twists but instead of snapping back at Sherlock as he expected she spun around to John and barked, "Who's this?"

A fission of... something, he isn't sure what, twisted in Sherlock's gut and his voice is sharp when he responds, "Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson, Sargent Sally Donovan. Old friend." he adds ironically.

Donovan shoots him an incredulous look. "A colleague. How did you get a colleague?"

"Did he fallow you home?" She adds to John, her voice a mix of concern and mockery.

This next emotion he can identify. Anger. Strange, he doesn't usually get really angry with any of Lestrade's team. Irritation is a nearly constant companion but not anger. And it is not for himself that he's angry right now, it's for John. Donovan is so dismissive of him that she barely noticed his presence despite having never seen him before and now that she has she treats him as nothing more then an object of pity. Not acceptable he decides.

John doesn't answer her, he stares Donovan down for a few seconds before his eyes slide past her to Sherlock, effectively dismissing her. He finds himself to be absurdly pleased by this, if not by his John's next words.

"Look, would it be better if I just go-"

"No," he interrupts flatly, firmly reaching around Donovan to raise the tape for John. He silently dares the Sargent to object.

Donovan simply huffs and marches away while reaching for her radio. John casts him a wary look but follows him without objection. Up ahead he hears the squawk of Donovan's radio before she says, "Yeah, freaks here. Bringing him in."

Ahead of them Sherlock sees Anderson step from the house. Donovan was as abrasive and biting as the students from his school days. Inane for the most part but occasionally she flicked at old mental scar tissue. Things that really should have stopped bothering him long ago. Anderson though, Anderson was always worth an answering jab.

"Ah, Anderson, here we are again."

"It's a crime scene," Anderson grumbled, snapping off his gloves and scowling at him. "I don't want it contaminated, are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear," Sherlock smirked. Really, unofficial as he was he had done far less damage to most crime scenes then Anderson and his team of monkeys.

"Magic tricks might impress Inspector Lestrade," he huffed partially unzipping his horrible blue coveralls and inadvertently giving Sherlock an whiff of a familiar smell_. Too easy._ "But they don't work on me." _Oh, far too easy._

"And is your wife away for long?" he inquired innocently.

Anderson stared at him for a moment, eyes wide with surprise, then he scowled again. "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that!

_I've been here all of one minute, you moron, who could possibly have told me._ And Lestrade expected him to work with this buffoon.

"Your deodorant told me that." He said mildly, relishing the blank look this conjured on the other man's face.

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men," he explained happily.

"Well of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

Sherlock was only able to keep a strait face through sheer force of will. "So is Sargent Donovan." He sniffed helpfully as a wide eyed Anderson and Donovan exchanged glances. He grimaced the smell was sharper this time, almost nauseating. "Oh, I think it just vaporized. May I go in?" he inquired gesturing toward the front door.

"Y-You listen to me, okay" Anderson stuttered pointing at him. Sherlock wondered it this was supposed to come off as intimidating, he moved of with Anderson babbling on behind him. "Whatever it is you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything," he turned to smile wanly at the man. "I'm sure Sally came 'round for a nice little chat and happened to stay over. Behind Anderson, John was watching him with and odd mix surprise, curiosity, and a thinly veiled amusement. I might have or might not have been that glint in John's eyes that encouraged Sherlock to continue. "And I assume scrubbed your floors, going from the state of her knees."

"Right just... just go in!" Anderson spluttered, waving them on frantically. "Just go!"


	6. The Lauriston Garden Mystery

I own nothing.

(Sherlock's POV)

Entering the house Sherlock weaves his way through officers, John close at his heels, until he sees Lestrade. The DI looks up as they approach, fumbling with a pair of latex gloves. "You have two minutes," he calls.  
Sherlock grimaces in annoyance as he squeezes past another blue-clad officer in the narrow hallway but all he says in reply is, "May need longer." He grabs two of the hideous blue coveralls and hands one to John. "Put this on," he mutters to him.  
Lestrade stares at the pair of, obviously confused. "Who's this?"  
"He's with me," he answers, hoping it will be enough.  
"But who is he?"_ Obviously not._  
"I_ told_ you," Sherlock snaps "he's with me." John glances warily between the two of them but fallows Sherlock's lead as he pulls on the coveralls. "So, where are we?" He can guess of course, but judges it better to move the conversation along.  
Lestrade appears to concede and nods upward at the ceiling. "It's upstairs."

Lestrade leads them up a set of stairs to the second floor, talking the whole while. "Footprint analysis says that the only other person in this room in the last twelve hours was a man of about five foot seven. It seemed that he and the victim arrived together by car. All identification's missing from the body, just like the others."  
Sherlock listens closely, as he examines the spare, white and wood panel staircase with his penlight.  
Reaching the first door at the top, Lestrade pushes it open and walks through, pausing long enough for the other two to enter the room as well before continuing. "Have no idea who she is or where she's from."  
Their eyes are all immediately drawn to the dead woman. The bright pink of her entire wardrobe is almost shocking contrasted with the colorless starkness of the rest of the room._ Media worker probably, most likely a reporter. Mud spatters on her right leg suggest she was dragging a small, overnight suitcase. She must have just come from out of town. Just arrived today, judging form the state of her hair, she never made it to a hotel. Probably came here directly from the airport._  
"Well, she's from out of town, clearly." He notes aloud for the others' sake. "Planned to spend a single night in London before returning home. So far, so obvious."  
"Obvious?" Lestrade asks sounding puzzled as usual.  
Sherlock sighs in exasperation. "Yes, obvious. Back of the right leg." he adds, gesturing. He turns to John, who's gaze is still fixed on the body. "Doctor Watson," he says, to get his attention. "What do you think?"  
The army doctors suddenly blank expression is not encouraging. "What do I think?"  
"You're the medical man," Sherlock prompts.  
"We have a whole team right outside." Lestrade interrupts.  
"They won't work with me," he answers irritably.  
_"Look_," Lestrade says sharply. "I'm breaking every rule letting_ you_ in here."  
Sherlock glares at him "Yeah, he growls. "Because you_ need_ me." _And sometimes it would do you well to remember it._  
The detective stars at him for a moment before his before his shoulders slump just a little. "Yes, I do," he sighs and looks away, down to the body. "God help me."  
_I thought I was supposed to be the dramatic one,_ Sherlock thinks before stating flatly, "John."  
He isn't sure what John's does behind but Lestrade looks at him for a moment before nodding and waving toward the corpse while grumbling "Oh, just do as he says. Help yourself." The DI irritably steps past John to stand by the door.  
Sherlock kneels down the dead woman as John approaches. As soon as he shuffles down to his level _(really have to do something about that limp)_ he asks, "Well?"  
John huffs a little and quietly asks "What am I doing here?"  
Glancing back to see Lestrade not paying them any attention he whispers back, "Helping me make a point."  
Still examining the body John mutters back "I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."  
"Yeah; this is more fun." Sherlock holds back a grin.  
"Fun? There's a woman lying dead." John's voice is still low but it now holds a hint of sharpness.  
_Fine, if you want serious then._ "No, there are two women and three men lying dead. Keep talking and there'll be more." He raises his voice so Lestrade can hear his next words, effectively ending the conversation, "Now, cause of death."  
He can feel John's gaze on him as he looks away and he half expects him to get up and walk (or limp) away but then John eventually leans forward, puts his head close to the victim's and sniffs. He then straightens up and looks across to Sherlock, his voice calm and straightforward. "Asphyxiation, probably. She passed out and choked on her own vomit. I can't smell any alcohol on her. Could be a seizure; possibly drugs."  
_Very good doctor,_ he thinks buts shakes his head, "It was poison."  
John looks up, "How do you know?"  
"Because they were all poisoned."  
"By who?" John asks looking over toward Lestrade.  
_You won't find the answer over there._ "By themselves."  
"Themselves?" he asks. Sherlock can hear definite interest coloring his voice now.  
From the doorway Lestrade begins to speak, "We've identified the drug-"  
_Unimportant._ He waves a hand back at the DI. " Doesn't matter; it was poison." Carefully reaching down to examine the right hand of the dead woman he murmurers, "Same pattern each time. Each one of them disappears from their normal lives ..." lowering his head he sniffs lightly. Along with her perfume he detects the harsher taint of jewelry polish. pushing back her sleeve he finds a metal bracelet._ Well kept accessories along with manicures fingernails. Very appearance conscious._ Glancing up he notes a slim wedding band on her left hand. "from the theatre," he gets up and move around to the other side of the body to get a better look and John stands to get out of the way. "from their home, from the office, from the pub ..." Reaching down he examines the ring, it's an older piece and seems oddly dirty compared to the bracelet. It's also noticeably tight on her finger. "then turn up a few hours later somewhere they've no reason to be dead." Sniffing the ring he detects no hint of polish._ Marriage of about 10 years in trouble, or at least indicating indifference._ He pulls back her coat sleeve to look at her wrist, then shifts his weight slightly and pulls her coat collar back. _Sightly damp but not soaked. Collar pulled up against the wind._ "No marks of violence on the body, no suggestion of compulsion." he notes. Lifting her hair lightly out oh the way he examines her earrings._ Clean and well taken care of. "_Each of them has taken the same poison – and, as far as we can tell, taken it voluntarily." He partially pulls our her matching pink umbrella._ Dry. Rain and very strong winds then._ He stands again, circling the body.  
As he pulls out his phone to check the weather outside of London, Lestrade speaks again from the door. "Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."  
Sherlock smiles at what he sees, looking at the screen. "Okay, take this down."  
"Just tell me what you've got," the DI snaps.  
Glancing up and tilting his head to the side he warns, "I'm not gonna write it down."  
_"Sherlock!"_  
"It's all right." Both men look over in surprise at John who calmly takes a pen and notepad out of his pocket. "I'll do it."  
_"Thank you._" Sherlock replies, shooting Lestrade a dark look.  
"The victim is in her early thirties. A professional person, going by her clothes; I'd guess something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink." he adds, wincing. "She's traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. That's obvious from the size of her suitcase."  
"Suitcase?" Lestrade asks.  
"Her suitcase, yes." He answers impatiently.  
Across from him John looks up from his notebook and glances around. Bending at the waist he continues. "She's been married several years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."  
"For God's sake, if you're just making this up-"  
Sherlock wonders if Lestrade is purposefully trying to annoy him. Jabbing his finger at the dead woman's hand he barks out,"Her wedding ring – look at it. It's too tight. She was thinner when she first wore it; that says married for a while. Also, there's grime in the gem setting. The rest of her jewellery's recently been cleaned; that tells you everything you need to know about the state of her marriage." At this point Lestrade has stepped further into the room to get a closer look and beside him John is grinning. He kneels down again to show the DI the ring. "Inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger but it can't be easy, so she must have a reason. Can't be for work; her nails are too long." He stands moves around to let the others have a full view. "Doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her ring for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."  
"Brilliant."  
Sherlock experiences a moment of blankness as he freezes eyes wide, staring at the man kneeling across from him. John's voice was warm and admiring. Catching Sherlock's eyes John quickly apologizes and returns to his notebook. Obviously an involuntary reaction then. Unsure how to react to this unexpected praise he's almost relieved when Lestrade asks, "Cardiff?"  
"Obvious, isn't it?"  
"It's not obvious to me." John prompts gently.  
"Dear God." he mutters, "What's it like inside your funny little brains? It must be so boring." Squatting once more, he points down at the body. "Her coat: slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London until the last few minutes. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. There's an umbrella in her left pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from the suitcase that she intended to stay a night, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried." Standing, he pulls out his phone. "So, where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within the radius of that travel time?" Pulling up the weather map again, he holds it out to the detective. "Cardiff."  
"Fantastic!"  
Warmth burns lightly in his chest. Glancing down he sees John smiling again, shaking his head. Curiously he inquires, "D'you know you do that out loud?"  
John looks up sheepishly, "Sorry. I'll shut up."  
"No," he says, slipping his phone back into his breast pocket. "It's..." he pauses, not sure exactly what it was. "It's fine." he says finally, a smile softening his features.  
"There was no suitcase." Lestrade's voice is low and it takes a moment to register.  
"I'm sorry?"  
The DI looks inordinately pleased with himself, "You keep saying 'suitcase'. There wasn't one."  
"Oh." Interest flares as he glaces around, trying to contain his excitement. "I was assuming you'd taken it away."  
"She had a handbag." Lestrade admits. "Why'd you say she had a case?"  
"Because she did. Her handbag – was there a mobile phone in it?"  
"No."  
He feels his eyes narrow, "That's odd. That's very odd."  
"Why?" Lestrade asks, puzzled.  
_Obvious._ "Never mind. We need to find her case."  
"How do you know she had a case?" John asks.  
Sherlock gratefully takes the offering John gives him, "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks above the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand." He and John lean over the body, Lestrade completely forgotten. He holds back a smile as the doctor eagerly follows Sherlock's gestures. He's enjoying himself more then he has in a while now. "Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, judging by the spread. A case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying the night."  
"Maybe she checked into a hotel, left her case there?" John suggests.  
"She never made it to a hotel. Look at her hair. Colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. A woman like that would never leave the hotel with her hair still looking that-" he breaks off. "Oh." Of course. So obvious. If the case hadn't been taken in to the house, it must have been left in the car, alone with the phone. A stupid mistake on the part of the murderer. One he would have to remedy at once, which meant-  
"Sherlock?" John asks.  
Pure adrenaline is coursing through his veins. A fierce smile curves his lips as he bolts toward the door, snapping off his gloves.  
"What?" Lestrade demands, hot on his heels. "What is it? What, what, what?"  
Sherlock grins as he begins to strip out of his coveralls, "Serial killers – always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake."  
"Well, we can't just wait!"  
"Oh, we're done waiting! When she was found, she couldn't have been here long, is that right?" he asks.  
"No, not long at all – " Lestrade shakes his head, "um, less than an hour."  
"Less than an hour." he murmurers. Oh "An hour!" He looks up sharply at the DI and demands, "News blackout: can you do that? Don't say that you've found her; nothing for a day."  
"Why?"  
Leaning forward in frustration he snaps "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake."  
Lestrade and John automatically turn and look back towards the body. Grinning happily, he starts down the stairs, calling back to John, "Back in a moment!"  
"What mistake?" Lestrade yells behind him.  
Skidding to a stop he turns and yells back, "Pink!" Turning he shoves past Anderson as he practically flies toward the door.


End file.
